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I value you. I see you. I’ve got you. You are mine.

I find myself operating from a very introspective, over-thinking, determined–yet timid kind of place these days. Anyone else?

I’m not sure if it’s me that’s turned inside out, but more that the world feels upside down from a lot of angles, and I’m generally trying to find my way through the maze. Too much information. Not enough truth. So many voices vying for my attention. Not enough quiet. Life with far fewer time-obligations out in the world because so many events/classes/activities/social gatherings are on pause, but a heightened level of responsibility to and for our little brood, gathered within our four walls at all hours, always together.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my people. I love and absolutely do not take for granted that we get to do life together. And the fact that global circumstances have brought us here–to this place where we ALWAYS do life together, is very much a gift. But with great privilege comes great responsibility, and my Type 1 personality wants to get it so right, in every moment, all of the time.

The healthiest, wisest version of myself whispers, “Dear Molly, you are enough. Your efforts are worthy. Your heart shines through,” while the unhealthy parts of me refrain, “Yes, but you could always do more. You could do better. You should…”

Friends, in this time when the world feels tenuous and tender (because it very much IS), I know that I know that I know that God wishes we’d hear His whispers of “I value you. I see you. I’ve got you. You are mine,” over anything else. The air around us is loud. And it isn’t just loud. Some (most?) days it’s swirling with tension, unrest, ache, offense, defense, disagreement and the smoke rising from too many matches lit and thrown on top of an already burning fire. I can’t even begin to unpack what last night exposed even further about this time we’re living in, as two grown babies argued and disregarded one another on live television while the world watched. The examples set before us in this arena are simply awful. AWFUL. And they don’t set the tone for the rest of us to remember to be kind, to treat others with respect, to love one another as we’re called to love. We can ask ourselves how we got here, and that question has its place. But what’s more urgent in a time such as this is to ask ourselves WHERE we can place our trust when so much is untrustworthy. Let’s be honest. Digging out the truth these days is a full time job with loads of overtime and no extra pay.

And on that note, I’ve done it. I’ve gone searching for truth in the news cycle, in off-the-beaten-path resources, in reports from regular people like you and me instead of mainstream media. And I’ve gone down the rabbit hole and spent too many hours trying to figure it out myself, to my own detriment. Not daily, not since March, but from time to time when I’ve set down where I actually place my hope and tried to pick up controlling things on my own.

This is a terrible idea. It just is. I can say this with assurance because I’ve experienced the impact of this behavior on my own heart and mind. Friends, our minds are swirling and our hearts are weary for so many big and real reasons. The information train of social media, television, everyone’s opinions and our own internal voices eventually becomes too much. Trying to take it all in isn’t helpful. I’ve only found two things that help defray the cost of these influences on my life and mindset, and one is mightier than the other. The first we’ll group into the category of quiet/self care/exercise/rest/nutrition, and the second (but not second) is Jesus.

If I don’t get my head in the Word, I can’t stop the crazy train in my head. I just can’t. There’s too much begging for my attention. I’m not saying I do this well, I’m just saying that the Word is the ONLY thing that has staying power to bring peace. The. Only. Thing. I’ll admit that some days I can’t even bring myself to dig deep there, even if I know it’s what best. So I play songs that speak truth over me and over our kids as we go about the day. I find the podcast that preaches on what God has to say about any one thing. I offer up little prayers all the day long and I ask Him to bring clarity in areas where I feel like I have none.

This time in the world is riddled with hard. I feel it, too. But if you’re in the camp of Jesus being the answer, our hope has not changed. We all have some really big decisions ahead of us in this next month leading up to election day. I’m not going to get political here–that’s really never been my intent. But I’ll say this: I remember heading to vote four years ago and the only thing guiding my hand in that booth being God’s gently-leading direction. I’m praying for that again. Begging for it. Doing this allows me to put down the effort to dive into every politically charged and divisive topic, and to put my discernment and faith to work instead. God has brought leaders to power throughout the history of the world, and He has allowed them to rise and fall. We are still His people no matter who is in charge, and that won’t ever change.

The world is upside down to us, because we’re not in control. But we serve a really giant God who, in spite of ourselves, keeps whispering in His merciful way, “I value you. I’ve got you. I see you. You are mine.” In any circumstance, He isn’t confused. He’s never been mean or poor, His Kingdom is not is trouble, and at the end of the day and because of Christ, neither are we. Bless the Lord for that.

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another fresh start.

What is it about birthdays? I fall asleep one age and wake up another, and the day takes on a life of its own that feels different than the rest. You, too?

I’ve heard many adults say it’s “just another day,” but that’s not really how I feel about it. Just as with the new year in January and the start of a school year each September, a birthday feels like a fresh start to me. Let’s call it capitalizing on an opportunity—I can always use a fresh start.

It wasn’t until last year that I asked for time for my birthday, and Jason has been gracious enough to oblige. I don’t have any major agenda today except to sit quietly, to write and pray, and to reflect with gratitude on another year on this beautiful, magnificent, captivating planet. THIS is a gift.

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In this stage of life and motherhood, I’m not sure I sit still or quiet often enough, but I ought to try. As a newer tradition then, I throw all guilt out the window as best I can on my birthday and I just GO. If I’m honest with myself, this “just go” mentality isn’t an easy one for me, and I’m wrestling that afresh these days. I’m grateful to Jason for his kind nudge.

It isn’t that I think I should be able to simply drop my responsibilities and throw caution to the wind with regularity (and today isn’t that). But even getting myself out of the house and putting down my role as mom and wife and teacher for a little while has gotten harder over time. It’s the result of a lot of factors, really, but I’ve lost myself a bit in motherhood, and I’m coming to terms with this in the quiet spaces when I do steal away.

I didn’t think I’d be here, actually. It just sort of happened. Maybe if you’re in the midst of young motherhood, you can relate. Or maybe you remember those days when your kids were young and your identity was largely based in the young family you were raising and the lives that depended on you 24/7. The past year has surprised me in a lot of ways—not the least of which is how our littlest is moving out of the toddler stage and approaching three. I didn’t imagine I wouldn’t be changing tiny diapers or still nursing or juggling infant gear by now, but I’m holding our baby’s hand instead of carrying him more and more; I’m soaking in every possible snuggle and bedtime rocking session with the awareness that I might not revisit this sweet stage again. I turn the lights out on another day, and as I slowly close the door to his room I wonder where the time has gone and who we’re becoming now…who I’m becoming as my babies grow.

What is God calling me to in this season where everything is changing and I’m finally picking up on the fact that the ground has shifted under my feet?

I have thoughts about where 37 will take me—where God will lead me as He offers each day as a gift not to be assumed, but savored. I don’t want to take things for granted, and I’m learning (yet again) that His story for me always turns out better than the one I continue to try writing for myself. I want to fit so many pieces into the puzzle so I can see it all clearly, and God keeps handing me just one fragment at a time—for good reason.

I may be a year older, and I *might* be a tad wiser, but I have far to go. Leaning in and listening closely is perhaps the best way for me to let plans unfold. Though I love every bit of being a mom to young kiddos, God is reminding me that my motherhood is best served when I don’t forget who I was before diapers and homeschool and all that’s come with parenting for me. I’m working on making space for life-giving passions (like writing and doula work) that aren’t mutually exclusive, because God keeps nudging me there.

It’s scary to let go and it’s scary to pick things back up, too, but it’s probably time. So I’m nervous, but not afraid. I’m hopeful and curious and anxious for what’s next. I think there’s more on the horizon to share, and that gets me excited—even with just a few pieces of the puzzle in view.

Here’s to 37, and to each of us growing into who we’re called to be, a little more, every day.

mm

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a note for today.

Mother’s Day. A day for all kinds of feelings to come to the surface. Jason and the kiddos gifted me with some time to myself this afternoon, and I’m grateful. No doubt I’m feeling all of the feelings today.

I just scrolled through IG, and posts run the gamut—celebrations of motherhood from every angle—sensitive posts acknowledging all of the women who are missing their mamas today or longing to be called mama themselves, photos of beautiful babies who are dreams and miracles come true, amazing women I feel so privileged to do life alongside.

I wanted to write the perfect, thoughtful post, but as much as I love words, I don’t have the right ones to offer today.

I understand both sides of the coin as best as I’m able, and based on my personal experience. That’s the very best I can do. Today, I celebrate the three incredible babies who have made me a mom—visibly—this side of Heaven. And I also celebrate and miss and remember the three sweet babies I never had the joy of mothering here on earth. Six lives that all matter equally to me. Six lives that matter equally to God.

To the world, we are a busy family of five with three healthy children, living the dream. I don’t take it for granted, these precious lives entrusted to us—not for one day. And I am so, so thankful for all that God has done. Yet, my heart knows the ache of longing, too. The reality of life here on earth is that we experience pain and loss right along with joy and abundant graces, and they’re not mutually exclusive.

I miss our three who aren’t here with us. I do. And the only thing that can fix the deep ache in me as their mama is to keep my eyes fixed on God, who bears the burden right with me and offers joy to replace what has been lost.

Mother’s Day. It looks different to each one of us. There’s no perfect path to motherhood—not in a fallen world. It’s OK that we wrestle with this, and even that we wrestle with God over it at times. He is a perfect Father who longs to meet us where we are—expectant, broken, hopeful, discouraged, barren or quiver full.

Longing for our heavenly three while I do my best to love our living three well, it brings me to the feet of my Father daily. This is a gift sometimes cloaked in confusion or ache, but a gift all the same. The longer I trust that God’s story for me is better than the one I could write on my own, the closer I draw to the healing hem of Christ, who heals my mother heart through the Father’s heart little by little, again and again.

Happy Mother’s Day to every mama heart today. God put this longing inside of us for a reason, and it wasn’t by mistake. I pray that He will continue to reveal Himself to each of us in ways that allow us to live into our hearts and callings with great joy and the fullness of His peace.

much love,

mm

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still coming along.

Today is my birthday, and I asked to have time alone. It’s been a hard year. It’s been an especially hard few months. I’m craving time by myself because I’m rarely solo, and the daily noise that’s hard to hush lends little space for breathing deep or simply being, for processing or healing. I feel selfish saying it, though I know it’s self-preserving to admit—I need all of the space and healing I can get right now.

There’s no clear cut path to healing, I’m pretty sure of it in my old age. I’ve convinced myself a lot of days that I’m fine, but I can feel the not-fine sitting just below the surface.

I ran into a friend yesterday who I haven’t seen in a long time. She asked how I was doing and I was honest. We talked for a few minutes about life and what’s moving and happening for both of us, and then she offered me grace. She said, “You don’t have to be fine because it’s not fine. Permission to not be OK.” She’s right, and I’ve missed her, and our intersection was timely.

It’s OK to not be OK.

I don’t know why our culture makes it so not OK to not be OK. I really don’t. The truth is, we’re a bunch of people all moving through life with our own stuff. And sometimes we’re OK. Better, even. But when we’re not OK, we tend to walk around feeling like we ought to be, and instead of granting ourselves the permission to be hurting, we heap guilt on ourselves instead. The voices get loud.

We’re not ______ enough. We’re too _______.

In this “not OK” space, we’re vulnerable, so we’re more easily convinced to buy into the lie that we’re burdensome, weak, alone. I’m writing this and being reminded at the same time that God promises to carry our burdens, to be strong when we’re weak, to be our ever-present help in times of trouble. Sometimes when I’m not OK, It’s harder to dig down and remember who God is and what he says, too.

So, there’s this. Here’s what I can offer in my not-OK birthday ramblings as I set sights on a new year and aim to project hope into my own circumstances, just as I desire to infuse it into yours:

We have permission to not be OK. It’s not a “get out of jail free” card on life, but it is a pass to downshift for a time while we practice holding grief and joy in the same space…while we pursue help and healing. It’s an acknowledgement that we live in a broken world, and that we might feel broken in it.

We’re not alone, but our space can be lonely.

We may be surrounded, when all we crave is space.

We might find space and feel uncomfortable and messy in it while we scramble to get a better sense of what’s next.

As I type, I’m sitting in the car down the street from the chapel where Jason and I were married. I left the house unsure of where I was headed this morning, but as I drove, I felt drawn to go and sit in a space where God has done a lot of work in my heart. I walked up to the chapel doors to find them locked. Someone came and opened the door, but only to tell me that the chapel was closed and I couldn’t come in.

Burdened. Weak. Alone. I’d thought I was onto something by coming here, and then one more “no” closed in on me when I needed it least. I walked back to the car and ugly cried in the front seat. Not getting inside the chapel felt personal. It yelled all of the things at me that I’ve heard on repeat lately, “You’re not worthy. You’re not wanted. You don’t belong.” “Shouldn’t a chapel be a place you can go freely and enter in with God?” I started thinking. Sure, maybe. I had to be careful not to place my own sense of rejection onto my belief about God and who he is for me, right now.

I rarely attempt to go to a church space (outside of Sundays) to find God there. He shows up most to me in nature, in the mundane, in my children, in the everyday. I know better than to think he’s off limits just because the chapel doors are locked, but man, it would be so easy to buy into that lie and stay there if I wanted to.

I’m 36 this morning and I’m not entering it with ease. If I dig deep down, I know that this will change—I just have to allow myself the space to heal, and to let pain be pain, when it comes.

It feels good to write something down…to pound it out. I knew, at least, that I needed that today. Like anything worth fighting for, this being real with these feelings and sitting in the yuck feels uphill to me. As I’m climbing, I know God is building muscles I’ve not developed just yet. I hope that as he strengthens me, I can put my strengths to good use.

How does a date on the calendar make us stop and think harder, or feel gratitude or ineptitude or cause so much self-reflection? Since we all do it, I’m thinking God built that into us as humans. Maybe it’s a birthday, or an anniversary, or the remembrance of a hard loss or a really great victory, but whatever the case, we feel because we were meant to feel, and we attach meaning to dates and take them to heart because our past and our present both shape us for what is to come.

God has graced me with 36 years on this planet thus far, and I have a lot of figuring out to do yet. If I measure where I am by the worldly things, I’m not quite sure where I stand. What I do know is that God is stirring up some things in me that I didn’t know were possible ten years ago, or even five. I stopped growing taller a very long time ago, but the growth happening where I can’t see it is still coming along. I hope I’m granted many more years to become more and more like the person God designed me to be—the one who grows through what’s hard and what’s not OK, and someone who offers grace and permission to others where they need it, when they need it, too.

it’s good to be back here.

love and grace,

mm

Birthday Peonies

birthday beauties.

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Crosby Eames–a birth story, part 4.

I’ve been anxious to tell this last part of your birth story, baby boy, wanting to be right back in that space with you on the day you were born. I pulled up our hospital playlist to bring me closer to those hours before you came, and I hit shuffle, my headphones in as I sit here in the coffee shop pounding out keys to you. The first song to come streaming out: “Good, Good Father.” A holy, sweet reminder that God is always good, no matter what. It’s who he is. It’s every bit true.

And now? “No Longer Slaves.” He never ceases to amaze me.

“I am surrounded…by the arms of the Father. I am surrounded…by songs of deliverance. We’ve been liberated…from our bondage. We’re the sons and the daughters…Let us sing our freedom!”

These words. These faithful, beating words do take me back. I sang them out, loud, on the day you were born, and my heart sings them again now:

“You split the sea so I could walk right through it! My fears are drowned in perfect love. You rescued me and I will stand and sing, ‘I AM A CHILD OF GOD.'”

Freedom. Deliverance. Drowned fears. God making a way for you. He did that very thing, and in doing so, he made a way for me, too.

The hours carried on that morning, your birthday. Around 11:45am, I looked at the clock and summoned my inner doula to make note of how my body was transitioning. This happens when a mama is very close to delivery, somewhere between seven and ten centimeters along. I remember that moment well. I was kneeling on the floor, arms propped up. Your daddy, behind and to my right, was supporting me through the next contraction. I made note of the time and thought to myself, “So close now. You’ll meet your baby by 12:30pm. 1pm at the latest.” I felt like I had so little left to give in labor. The thought that you were so very close was motivating, but my body was beyond tired. I asked your daddy to pray, and he did. Those words moved me through the next wave, and I begged God for help as another round came.

At that time, I also asked to be checked, and our nurse confirmed that I was completely dilated. Surely you would arrive so soon! She called our doctor, who made his way from the office to the hospital quickly. His presence in the room was a welcome addition–it meant we were very, very close.

For the hours that followed, I wandered–mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, through every possible feeling. I tried everything I could think of to work through contractions and help you to arrive. Nurses brought in a squat bar. We used the birthing ball. We tried walking, dancing, squatting, rocking and anything that my body moved to do naturally. You felt so close and so far away.

Something beautifully spiritual happened to me in that space of desperation and waiting–a moment I still can’t do justice to if I try. I had trusted God with ALL of me that it was possible I could deliver you without pain, but instead, I was in the most intense pain of my life. This is a hard part to tell, and I say it carefully, but I really did believe that I might die that afternoon. I had never felt so close to something out of this world as I did then. Maybe that feels dramatic now, or maybe I had a sense of what God was doing in a story that would have gone another direction without Him. I was alone in that room in the most powerful way. Your daddy was there, and Becky and our doctor and the nurses, too. But there was a space in time when it really felt like it was just you and me and God laboring together. Everything else fell away. I felt so broken, so in need. It was one of the most sacred moments of my life.

I moved from the floor after those seconds or minutes, trying as best I could to push through what was obviously not the end. I lay in the bed so drained of my own capacity, and I can say with confidence that God brought us through every single moment from then until you arrived. I was not under my own power at all, but His. God delivered you into this world, not me.

After several hours without much change, our nurse suggested that I try moving to the shower. She thought that might give me a sense of relief that would be enough to move us forward. I felt so weak and so discouraged, but in a moment of clarity I remembered that you had always moved so fluidly in my belly whenever you felt warm water on my skin. There was no reason not to try it, aside from my unbelief in my ability to move safely from the bed across the room. Your daddy and our nurse supported my walk there, and once we reached the shower, I tried to let go of my own thoughts and allow our bodies to do the work. I could hardly squat or stand. Maybe two minutes into this new scenario, I felt you move. And I mean, move. The sensation of you being stuck was suddenly gone, and now I thought I might just deliver you right onto the shower floor. I yelled in that moment–a yell that caused our nurse to pull the emergency cord and sent half a dozen nurses, our doctor and our photographer all into the room in one instant.

My feet barely touched the floor as arms gathered around and supported me back to the bed. I imagine now how ridiculous it all must have looked, had I been a fly on the wall. I didn’t care at all. I just wanted to meet you, and also not to deliver you onto the floor. My sense of urgency was valid, but perhaps alarmist. There was time to get me back into bed and positioned to deliver you, with maybe ten to fifteen minutes to spare.

Our doctor was calm, careful and patient, as he’s always been. Your cord was wrapped around you and up over your head, your hand was tucked snuggly in a fist up against the side of your face. As you stretched out into the world, that same arm reached out into the sky like a victorious punch. I felt exactly that way, too, precious boy.

I couldn’t have you in my arms fast enough. We have dozens of pictures to prove it. I’ve never been so relieved, maybe ever. You were here, safe. It took some time for your color to change, but all I could think was how miraculously you’d arrived. When everything seemed to stand in the way, God had brought you the way I had begged and pleaded he would–whole, healthy, without intervention. I am still in awe and amazed of His goodness in all of it.

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Daddy announced your gender, then cut your umbilical cord after a few minutes while I fixated on every last detail of you. All nine pounds, seven ounces of resilient, peaceful, mysterious you were now tucked in, skin to skin, with me. I thought I’d broken already, but the truth is, I had more breaking to do.

After you were born, we waited to tell anyone your name until your gramma could bring Henry and Eloise to meet you. We wanted them to be the first to know. “This is your new baby brother,” we told them. Henry cheered at the news of a boy. Eloise melted at the sight of you. I’m pretty sure I just cried and cried.

“His name is Crosby Eames,” we told them. “Fwizbee?” Eloise asked. “Crosby,” your daddy and I smiled.

You entered the world every bit your name that day, Crosby Eames. Crosby means “one who goes to the cross” or “goes to the city with crosses” and Eames means “prosperous protector.” Together we had gone to the cross, sweet baby, and our Prosperous Protector delivered us both.

I will never forget the details of your birthday, precious boy, nor the journey we traveled to get to it. God hasn’t stopped using you to refine me since that day, and I suspect He never will. I love you more than I could possibly say. I love the God we serve more freely and fiercely because of you. Not only did He answer every prayer of mine in the way He knew best, but He wove in sweet surprises and deepened joy at every turn.

As I finish telling your birth story, a new song is playing from your playlist, and it’s perfect:

“For the danger in these waves, for the thrill adventure craves, for the safety found in laying down our days. For a hope that’s on the rise, for the clearing of the skies, for the way that you delay and then surprise…

Oh you were so kind to answer my prayer. So good, so loving, so aware that you would move heaven and earth…

And I sing a hymn of praise for all you’ve done for me, and your love is in the wind and tumbling o’er the sea. So kind to me…”

God has been so kind to me. Your life changes ours and makes it better. It always will.

love you forever and ever, and then a little bit more,

mama

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